


There will come a poet whose weapon is His word

by oscarlovesthesea



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Introspection, M/M, Pining, because i'm disabled and i'm going to project however i want, in which I blend the lines between the inability to do magic and physical disabilities, this was meant to be gen and then i got possessed by Zolf/Wilde worms as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26700661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscarlovesthesea/pseuds/oscarlovesthesea
Summary: Going to cast prestidigitation is more instinct than anything else at this point, so when he does and is only met with a cold, hard wall instead of the usual warm flood of magic, it takes him a moment to realise what is wrong. And then he does, and he stares back at his shaved head and his dark eyes back in the mirror and his chest tightens until he can’t breathe, his lungs filling with bitterness and grief as a single tear, unprompted, starts rolling down his cheek.***Reflections on Oscar Wilde's anti-magic cuffs.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 14
Kudos: 102





	There will come a poet whose weapon is His word

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing more Zolf/Wilde? Shocker, I know.   
> I've been working on this baby for a while now, and it was kind of an absolute beast to write, but I hope you enjoy it.   
> The title is from Soldier, Poet, King from The Oh Hellos, and was found by Enea, who is also my wonderful beta reader and friend. You can find him at [grassboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassboy/pseuds/grassboy) on ao3 and [jimmymagma](https://twitter.com/jimmymagma) on twitter.
> 
> One last note before you go: this fic isn't very subtle about paralleling Wilde's inability to do magic with a physical disability. Everyone's experience of disability is different and therefore representation of it can arguably be inherently fallible, so I am willing to take criticism on this. That said, Wilde's experience here is very much modelled after my own experience with being physically disabled, so I ask that you are kind with whatever criticism you might have.  
> Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

**i.**

The first few days are the worst.

That’s not quite true – he spends the first few days in a sleepy daze in the temple of Artemis, but after that – when he’s put himself together enough to stand on his feet, he starts feeling the aching void left by the anti-magic anklets kindly made for him by the Ephaestus lot. He keeps forgetting at first, the anklets light enough that he doesn’t really register their weight, and there is so much paperwork to catch up on and so many things to do that he doesn’t even have the  _ time  _ to think about everything he has lost in the last few days. 

It's a couple of days later that it fully hits him – when, after another pointless, tiring argument with the priests at the temple of Ephaestus about the damn kill switch documents – he takes a moment to collapse in his room at the inn he’s staying in, and gets distracted by his own reflection in the mirror as he washes his face. He looks – well, he looks terrible. His face is thinner than normal, in a way that feels angular and malnourished rather than sharp and handsome, and while the circles under his eyes have subsided, they are still there, making him look tired and ghostly. His hair is gone, which is -fine, is what it is. He doesn’t like the way his head feels scratchy when he runs his hand on it.

Going to cast prestidigitation is more instinct than anything else at this point, so when he does and is only met with a cold, hard wall instead of the usual warm flood of magic, it takes him a moment to realise what is wrong. And then he does, and he stares back at his shaved head and his dark eyes back in the mirror and his chest tightens until he can’t breathe, his lungs filling with bitterness and grief as a single tear, unprompted, starts rolling down his cheek.

That day, he doesn’t leave his room again.

**ii.**

He has learned long ago that everything becomes routine if he suppresses his feelings about it for long enough, so after a couple of weeks, even the piercing in his chest every time he goes to cast a spell subsides to a dull ache. 

When he starts working on plans for the future, it looks like everywhere he could turn is a dead end: the Meritocrats cannot be trusted, and the only people that he  _ did  _ trust are – well, they’re probably dead.  _ Let’s go rogue,  _ Grizzop had said, but there is no one left to go rogue with, and sometimes there are moments – he never lets it go for longer than a moment – when he realises that he’s alone, and crippled, fighting gods know how many invisible enemies. He needs help –  _ no,  _ what he needs is his team, and his goddamn magic back, and his hair to grow back. But he can’t have everything he needs and definitely not everything he wants, and all of a sudden he doesn’t have time to fall apart because the world starts breaking into pieces instead.

The Harlequins are his very last resort – they don’t like him, and historically he hasn’t much liked them either – but they do a decent job of trying to salvage what is left, and they know he’s skilled enough that, in desperate times, they can overlook their past rivalry.

“You want to turn the world back?” Professor Curie asks him on their second meeting, eyebrows raised in the perfect picture of scepticism.

“I believe,” Oscar explains, carefully keeping his voice even, “that what is happening to the world is somehow connected to what I had been working on with my team, and I believe that with the right help, there is work that could be done on reversing the current situation.”

For just a moment, Oscar catches a flicker of interest in Curie’s eyes, gone as soon as it appears. “I assume the reason you are here is that this team of yours is unavailable.”

“Dead, most likely,” Oscar says. He hasn’t admitted that out loud before, and he’s almost surprised at how level he manages to keep his voice. But then again, this is what he’s trained himself to do his entire life. “They went to Rome and I don’t expect them to return.”

“And you need help?”

He sighs, giving himself just a moment to fiddle with his hands before speaking. “I am currently indisposed,” he says before taking a deep breath. “I was cursed, probably multiple casters working at once, I assume because of my involvement with the simulacra research. I’m keeping it at bay with anti-magic cuffs, but that leaves me more vulnerable than I’d like.”  _ There. _ An even and simple explanation, because Curie doesn’t need to know about the frustration every time he tries to snap his fingers to fix his hair before remembering that that doesn’t work anymore.

Curie’s eyes darken. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says simply, and he realises that, as another powerful, well trained spellcaster, she would understand most of all how difficult the position he is in is. “To be completely honest, Mister Wilde, I am doubtful that there is much that can be done about turning the world back, but I can probably spare you a couple of men.” She moves up some papers on her desk, drawing up a quill. “I am sure you’ve done your research before coming here, so, do you have anyone in mind?”

At that, Oscar smiles.

*

Zolf Smith is different from how Oscar remembers him. For one, his hair has gone white, and maybe even more noticeably than that, the water legs that Oscar had gotten a brief glance at in Paris are gone. He pushes himself on a wheelchair, looking grumpy as always, but somehow, slightly more at peace. They are left alone in one of the Harlequins’ quarters in Prague, silence stretching between them as they take measure of each other.

“So,” Zolf says, after a moment too long. “You want my help. Why?”

“I assume you have heard what happened to your old companions?”

That catches Zolf off guard, his expression turning into a frown, his jaw set. “Yeah. They’re dead.”

“Most likely.” Oscar nods, and doesn’t miss the way Zolf stiffens at the words. “But I want to continue their work.”

“As good as all that is,” Zolf says, gesturing to the wheelchair, “I don’t think I’m much use to anyone, right now.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Oscar sighs. “I can’t do magic.”

Zolf’s eyebrows shoot down, in a confused expression. “What – why?”

Oscar takes a deep breath. He wonders how many more times he’s going to have to tell this story, for how long he will have to explain why he needs more help than usual.

“I got cursed,” he says evenly, “I’m managing it with anti-magic cuffs, but that means that I can’t cast.”

Zolf stares at him for a long moment.

“I’m sorry.” He says eventually. The words are strangled.

Oscar shrugs. “It is what it is,” he explains, frustrated. “But the crux of the matter is that I need someone who can watch my back, magically and not.”

Zolf’s mouth falls open as he gapes at him. “Listen, I get it, but-” he gestures at the wheelchair, “I can’t walk. I don’t think I can help you.”

In Zolf’s voice, Oscar hears his own bitterness from just moments ago, and then an idea hits him, as he mentally looks through pages and pages of simulacrum research that he’s done his best to commit to memory. He might not be able to do anything about his own curse right now, but maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ he can help Zolf.

*

“Thank you, for this,” Zolf tells him two days later, as they wait in the Ephaestus temple to find out if they will be able to provide prosthetics based on Oscar’s notes. 

Oscar shrugs him off. Zolf doesn’t need to know about how much this means to him, too. 

“Why are you doing this?” Zolf asks, after a moment. “I don’t mean helping me, even though…” he trails off for a moment, then shakes his head. “I mean, why are you trying to turn the world back? How is it your responsibility?” 

Oscar almost laughs. The truth is, he doesn’t know how he could live with himself if he didn’t even  _ try.  _

“I believe it is connected to what I had been working on before,” he says, slowly. “And without my team, well. I guess I am the only one left alive to even have a lead on how to start fixing this.”

When he turns to him, he finds Zolf staring at him, his brow furrowed. “And you think it can be done?” He asks. “Fixing this mess?” 

Oscar sighs, nervously shifting his feet. The cuffs feel heavy around his ankles. “I need to believe that it can be done,” he says. “I need to believe that someone did this to the world, and that it can be undone.”

Zolf purses his lips, looking away from him.

“Okay,” he says after a moment.

“Pardon me?”

“Okay, I’ll help you.” Zolf’s face is ever so slightly flushed, which Oscar has to admit, is rather appealing on him. He forces the thought down, and with it the glimmer of hope at Zolf’s offer.

“Zolf, this might not work.” He says, gesturing at the walls of the temple.

Zolf nods. “No, I know, and if it doesn’t, that’s fine,” he says. “But, everyone else is too busy figuring out what to do now to even  _ try _ to fix things. So no matter what, I’d be happy to work with you.” His face blushes brighter before he adds, “If you’ll have me.”

He’s so eager, so determined, that Oscar feels a hint of a smile appear on his face. “Of course.”

Zolf smiles back. 

**iii.**

It’s easier, with Zolf. He spends less time worried that he will be utterly defenceless if he gets attacked, less time cursing himself about all the things he  _ can’t  _ do for the mission. It’s just the two of them for a few months, and what starts with an awkward blend of shared experiences slowly turns into a well-oiled machine of mutual trust, each other’s rhythm learned to perfection and accepted with the kindness of people who know there is no one else left.

Things change when Carter and Barnes arrive, their new delicate dynamic slightly upset by the new people. And Oscar is determined to keep the cuffs a secret from them for as long as possible, which does not help matters.

“You’re going to have to tell them, eventually,” Zolf tells him one night as they share whisky in his study.

“Zolf, we’ve been through this,” Oscar sighs, hiding his face in his hands, “I need them to trust me, and that’s-”

“I know what you’re about to say, and I still think it’s bullshit.”

“I can’t lead them if they think I’m useless, Zolf.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake,” Zolf slams down his whiskey. Oscar has to admit that his outrage is, as is often the case, quite endearing. “One, do you really think the right way to get them to trust you is lying to them? And two, just because you can’t do magic it doesn’t mean you’re useless.”

Oscar gestures vaguely, the words hitting a sore spot in his chest. He takes a sip of his whiskey.

“I managed to serve on a ship with a missing leg,” Zolf continues, heat rising to his cheeks, and Oscar doesn’t know if it’s the whiskey, or the conversation topic, or the way Oscar can’t bring himself to look away from him. “It was a struggle, and it sucked, but I did it, because my crewmates trusted me and helped me.” He purses his lips for a second, like he’s wondering whether to continue. After a moment, he adds, “It’s fine that you can’t do everything. But people can’t help you if you keep it a secret.”

Zolf is not very good with words, Oscar has learned that by now. He’s charming, in his own way, but he’s not good at talking. And yet, his words are making their way to all the sore, aching wounds that Oscar’s curse left him, the first touch of a healing balm.

“I’m not very good at delegating things,” Oscar says after a moment.

“Look, I’m not saying that it’s easy,” Zolf says rolling his eyes, but Oscar would almost say that his expression is fond. “Actually, there will be moments when it will definitely suck, but this is the hand you’ve been dealt. You can’t do magic? That’s fine. That’s why you’ve got me.”

He speaks with an intensity that Oscar has to resist the urge to look away from him.

“Thank you,” he exhales eventually.

“’s fine,” Zolf waves him off, taking another sip of his whiskey. He stares at his glass for a moment, then adds, “when we made contact, I couldn’t walk, but more than that, I was just… lost. And I can’t give you your magic back, but I’m trying to be better at sharing, and I think I know a little about what you’re going through.”

Oscar sighs. “It’s not quite the same.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve lost something, you can’t do the things you used to, and now you feel worthless. I’ve gone through that, so many times.”

Oscar raises his eyebrows, taking a long sip of his whiskey. “Alright,” he concedes, “I surrender to your compelling argument.”

Zolf opens up in a small smile, gruff and embarrassed. “So you’ll tell the others?”

Oscar looks at him, so lost, so desperate, and yet so eager, so hopeful. “I’ve been won over by logic,” he says, “and by the help of a good friend.”

**iv.**

Zolf had said that there would be days when missing his magic would suck, and that proves itself true less than a month later, when Curie puts them back in touch with an old contact, and Oscar makes a series of stupid decisions.

“It’s going to scar,” Zolf says as they quarantine together. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Oscar cuts him off, tracing the cut on his cheek. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Not yours either,” Zolf says, his voice rough, which is weird, because he hadn’t been too keen on Oscar taking the risks he did.

“Isn’t it?” Oscar argues. “And I let you try and heal me, and now you’re quarantined with me.”

“I’m a cleric, it’s what I do.”

“I’m sorry.” Oscar says, the words clawing their way through his throat.

It’s all his fault.

He might just have jeopardised their entire mission, and all because he got ahead of himself. He might have compromised  _ Zolf.  _ If he had just followed protocol, if he hadn’t gotten so cocky, if he still had his magic. The possibilities swirl around him, leaving him nauseous and angrier than he thought was possible.

“Don’t do that,” Zolf’s voice pulls him out from his spiral of thoughts. “Trust me, there is no point in getting lost in the what ifs.”

“How do you even know…”

“Because I’ve done it before,” Zolf says, firmly enough, but for a moment, he looks sad while he says it. “It’s pointless.”

“I got too used to you watching my back,” Oscar admits, the words coming out before the thought is even fully formed in his brain. “I forgot that I’m useless on my own, and got overconfident. And now…”

“It’s going to be fine,” Zolf says, but he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “And while it’s safer for us to quarantine now, I  _ was  _ watching your back. It’s not overconfidence if it’s well founded.”

It hurts, the way Zolf isn’t mad, the way he’s comforting him like Oscar hasn’t just greatly endangered his life.

“Why are you still working with me, Zolf? There are so many others who... you might work better with.”

What he doesn’t say is,  _ others who are more valuable than I am. _

The cell is small, and Zolf is sitting close enough to him that he pokes him in the rib. 

“Stop it,” he says. When Oscar looks up at him, there’s a grim determination on his face. “I brood enough for the two of us.”

At that, Oscar laughs. What a fascinating creature Zolf Smith is.

Zolf gives him a small smile in response. After a moment, he adds, “And it’s because you’re the only one who’s still trying to do something more than salvage the remains,” he says. “It’s because when you asked me to help, you gave me something better than a pair of legs.”

“And what’s that?” Oscar raises a sceptical eyebrow at him.

Zolf shakes his head, but there’s a hint of fondness in his voice when he says, simply, “Hope.”

**v.**

As the scar whitens on Oscar’s face, and his hair grows back to its original length, they all get much stricter with quarantine rules. Zolf is particularly protective, which at times makes him feel safer, and other times makes the cuffs on his ankles feel even more heavy.

Some days, it’s fine. Some days he remembers that just because he’s stuck like this, it doesn’t mean that he’s necessarily worth any less than he did when he still had his magic. And other days, he misses terribly being able to click his fingers and fix his hair, the way he could feel magic crackling in the air around him as he spoke. Life feels quieter than it used to be, words stop being the warm refuge they’d been for so long. It's the silence that gets him, especially on the nights that the rest of his team is quarantined in the anti-magic cell, dead for all he knows.

It's one of those nights, when Zolf, Carter and Barnes have recently gotten back from a mission, that he makes a stupid decision. It doesn’t feel stupid when he makes it and, having spent days weighing the pros and cons, he takes off the anti-magic cuffs. Just for a couple of hours, he tells himself, on nights that he wouldn’t have slept anyway, just to feel magic flowing through his words again.

A few days later, they find him passed out in his study, blood coming out of his ears and nose. Oscar wakes to Zolf’s hands pouring healing energy into him, a furrowed brow and a painfully concerned expression on his face.

“Wilde?” he’s saying, “Come on, talk to me.”

“’m fine,” Oscar manages to groan, though his head feels like it has exploded.

“Yeah, sure,” Zolf mutters, “do you know where your cuffs are?”

“Bedside table,” Oscar exhales, “my room.”

Zolf turns around and mutters something to someone behind him, who leaves the room in a rush. 

“Did you take them off?” Zolf asks. At Oscar’s nod, his brow furrows even deeper. “Why?”

Oscar doesn’t answer, just tries to pull his head away from his desk, where the papers he’d been working on are covered in blood.

“Did you get cleared?”

“The innkeeper did,” Zolf says, his voice steady, “he had to, because he found you passed out in a puddle of your own blood.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar mutters at the concern in his voice.

“It’s fine, just,” Zolf’s voice is trembling ever so slightly, “don’t do that again. Gods.”

After Barnes comes back with the cuffs and they’re secured again around his ankles, which Oscar does  _ not _ , in his sleep deprived state, whimper at, they half carry him, half drag him to his room, where he’s deposited back onto his bed. Zolf takes a place sitting next to him on the bed while Barnes backs quietly out of the room.

“You should get some rest.” Zolf tells him, from somewhere at Oscar’s left. After a moment of hesitation, he makes to get up and Oscar blames it on the fact that his head feels like it’s on fire that he makes a slightly undignified sound (not a whine, he doesn’t whine, thank you very much) and asks, “Stay? Please?”

He sees Zolf stiffen, but then sitting back into place. “Alright,” he says. After a moment, he adds, “What the hell was that, Wilde?”

Oscar sighs, but that’s fair, Zolf is owed an explanation. He tries to sit up next to Zolf but his head is spinning too hard, and he loses his balance, falling straight into Zolf’s lap. Zolf stiffens under him, but he doesn’t shove him away.

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says eventually, revelling in the warmth. “I just missed it. The things I used to do before.”

“So you decided to purposefully exhaust yourself to death?”

“I thought I wouldn’t sleep anyway,” Oscar explains, “with you in quarantine and all. It made sense at the time.”

“Well, it looks to me like the curse at this point has evolved past nightmares, so maybe don’t do that again.” His voice is strained, in a way that Oscar hasn’t really heard before. He wishes he could see his face.

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says again. He’s aware of the fact that his brain isn’t really working at full capacity right now, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“It’s fine,” Zolf tells him. His hands start brushing Oscar’s hair, slowly massaging his scalp. He probably knows it helps with headaches, Oscar reasons with himself, and when Zolf doesn’t mention it, he doesn’t either. “Just take better care of yourself, I won’t forgive you if you die on me like this.”

At that, Oscar almost laughs. “You’d miss me.”

Zolf huffs out what sounds like something halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “I mean, yeah. You’re my friend.”

Oscar doesn’t really control the pleased sound that his throat makes at that, but Zolf doesn’t seem to mind.

They remain silent, but Zolf continues to gently run his hands through Oscar’s hair until, eventually, he falls asleep.

**vi.**

It gets better. Slowly, painfully, it gets better. Oscar starts to readapt to his new life, magic gone from his grasp and friends at his side in a hopeless mission to save the world. A year and a half after the day he let Grizzop walk away to join the others in Rome, the impossible happens, and soon Zolf is guarding Azu and Hamid as they quarantine in the inn. With Grizzop and Sasha lost, it’s a bittersweet reunion.

The letter from Sasha clarifies things, and Oscar quietly mourns for Grizzop, knowing that he went proudly and righteously. He hopes that, from wherever he is in the astral plane, Grizzop might see him fighting and surviving and being slightly less of an ass than he used to be and maybe, just maybe, be a little bit proud of him.

He gets used to having to do mundane tasks without magic, even finding creative ways to make his hair look nice, though some days he gets angry at the mundanity of it. Things were simpler with magic, but he endures, less desperately than he did before. The anti-magic cuffs become a well-known, almost comfortable weight around his ankles, to the point that when the time comes to take them off, he comes to dread their absence.

It's their final mission, the end of everything, the all-or-nothing. The mission that’s going to define whether they save the world, or they all die heroically trying. The mission that epic poems are written about.

He’s known, from the start, that once they got to the end, the only thing that would matter was keeping his party safe, making sure they can go on to save the world. So, when they get assaulted by a mob of blue-veined on their way to where they’ve figured out the last remains of the Simulacrum are, he knows what he has to do.

“That’s insane,” Zolf tells him when he brings it up.

They don’t have time for this, they don’t have time for arguments.

“Oscar, you could die,” Hamid says, his voice a dangerously high pitch.

“You’re not going to be able to hold them all back, Wilde,” Azu says, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“I can buy you time. And if you have another solution, I’d be keen to hear it.” Oscar argues.

“Even if somehow the infected don’t kill you, the curse might,” Zolf says, and though his mouth is set in a way that tells Oscar he understands, his eyes are raging.

“They might just convert me,” he says, “in which case, if you succeed in the mission, I’ll be fine.”

Zolf opens his mouth, then closes it. “Cel,” he says, after a moment, “how confident are you that if this works, we can turn the people back?”

“Well, I mean, there’s always some space for doubt, but, I’d say, pretty confident,” Cel’s eyes are dancing around their companions and to the crowd of infected approaching them, and from the way they speak, clear and without tangents, Oscar knows that they’ve grasped the gravity of the situation.

“That’s still too much risk!” Hamid says fervently. “That’s given that they don’t kill you, and without considering your curse. We don’t… we don’t leave people behind, Oscar.”

“In this case you do,” Oscar says, and Hamid flinches. “Because there’s nothing more important than this. Certainly not my life.”

“There must be some other way, a distraction, or…”

“Hamid, he’s right.” Zolf intervenes. His voice is steady, but his brow is furrowed when he looks at Oscar. “There is no time for another solution.”

“This is it,” Oscar adds. Two years ago, he could have weaved magic into his words and convinced them all, but for now, he’s going to have to hope that sheer charisma will do. “I’m not more important than the rest of humanity. I  _ have _ to do this.”

Hamid looks at him, one lip quivering, and then throws himself to hug his knees.

“Fine,” he cries, “just don’t die.”

And before he can reply, the others throw themselves onto him as well, in a warm, desperate hug. For a few moments, he revels in the comfort of his friends’ arms, until he pulls away. There is no time for goodbyes.

“Wilde,” Zolf tells him before he turns away. “Be safe, alright?”

His eyes are burning with words left unsaid, with memories of quiet nights of reading together, with dreams of a future where maybe, just maybe, they take comfort in each other without fearing the world falling apart around them. And there’s so much Oscar wants to tell him, about how grateful he is to have had him by his side, about how he likes the way his eyes look when he loses himself in his book. About how he wishes he’d said something when he still could.

Instead, he nods. “You too,” he says, and turns away, because he can’t take more of this goodbye, because there isn’t  _ time _ .

He heads toward the crowd, ready to bend down enough to unlatch the cuffs around his ankles, but before he is far enough, Zolf’s voice pins him into place.

“Wilde, wait,” he says, and when Oscar turns, he’s running towards him. When he’s close enough, he pulls him down by the collar and kisses him.

Oscar loses himself in the kiss, finding for a moment, here at the end of the world, a home. It’s not a gentle kiss, but it’s warm and full of hope, in a way that Oscar didn’t know kisses could be, and he finds himself not wanting to let go, wondering for a moment what would happen if they just stayed like this, frozen in time, forever.

And then the moment is gone and Zolf pulls away, his forehead against Oscar’s as he says, “If we die, at least now you know.”

Oscar exhales sharply, his chest tightening. “Zolf, we  _ better  _ both survive this.” He reaches for Zolf’s lips again, quick and desperate, before forcing himself to pull away. He takes in Zolf’s eyes for what might be the last time, and turns towards the crowd.

When he hears his party scuffle away, Zolf hopefully safe with them, he leans down and slowly unlatches his cuffs. For the first time in two years, he starts to sing, and he hears magic crackle around him as he gives in, and faces the unknown.

**Author's Note:**

> And here we go! Not going to lie, I might write a short second part to this, just because I'm not very used to this kind of open endings. We shall see how that goes.   
> If you'd like to come chat, you can find me on twitter as [oscarlovesthsea](https://twitter.com/oscarlovesthsea) (or, you know. Leave a comment. I don't mind!).  
> I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!


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